


It's Good to be Champion!

by BKNY



Series: Innocents [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-03-09 19:16:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3261287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BKNY/pseuds/BKNY
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mustachioed Orlesian with a rose petal fetish plays unwitting matchmaker to Inquisitor Adaar and Ambassador Montilyet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intrigue

 

* * *

A/N: Just a little something something I needed to get out since I've been playing DA:I and mentally filling in blanks.

Also, an excuse to post on A03 for the first time (weeeee). Based on my canon quiz and the most nugdorable LI evuh. 

* * *

 

**It's Good to be Champion!**

* * *

 

The tattered great hall of the Inquisition bustled with whispers of affairs, alliances, and the haughty boasts of the largely Orlesian nobility who'd taken refuge in Skyhold as civil war raged in their homeland. Her eyes glued to her ever-present clipboard, Ambassador Josephine Montilyet navigated through and around the castle’s ever changing assortment of guests with ease to reach her destination – a scaffold that should have been dismantled over a month prior, when major repairs to the hall’s arch work were completed.

 _Unacceptable_.

Lashing her fountain pen like a whip across a fresh sheet of parchment, she began the first lines of a strongly worded letter to the foreman of Skyhold’s renovation.

“Stone-met, Ambassador.”

Josephine stilled her growing annoyance as she turned to see the foreman in question approaching her with a stack of mosaic tiles that nearly halved him in height.

“Messere Gatsi, I was hoping to speak with you about the scaffolding. As you know---”

“No time, Ambassador, I’m to have these puppies installed within the week - Inquisitor’s orders. Don’t know where she keeps finding them…or why, but an order’s an order.”

“Indeed,” Josephine agreed tactfully, already making note of her next task. “Would you happen to know where I might find Her Worship?”

A familiar voice cried out from the courtyard just outside the great hall before Gatsi could venture to guess the answer to Lady Montilyet’s question.

‘ _Yes, yes, it's good to be champion!_ ’

“Another time.”

Nodding courteously in the stonemason’s direction, Josephine took her leave. 

* * *

 

Following the boisterous clamor of metal clashing against metal, she descended the stairs to the courtyard practice ring where the Lord Chancer de Leon was instructing his latest and greatest pupil on the art of fortification. Pale eyes scanned the large crowd that had gathered around the ring, looking for a sign of the warrior who would have towered above the Human, Elven, and Dwarven spectators.

“C’mon, Inquisitor, on your feet!”

Josephine recognized the voice as Ser Blackwall’s and realized with a start that the Inquisitor was on the ground. Her footsteps fell faster as she drew closer with a sense of urgency that confounded her. The Inquisitor faced down aberrations on a daily basis. She once forged a living as a mercenary who risked her life to fight at the whims of her wealthy employers. Surely she could handle Lord Chancer’s elaborate combat drills.

Couldn’t she?

Her heart pounding in her chest as she pushed through the crowd, Josephine made out the striking, albeit dusty figure of the Inquisitor as she climbed to her full height. Her tan skin shone with perspiration in the unseasonable heat of noon sun, while the drab taupe fabric of her clothes darkened from exertion and dirt. Although she wore nothing in the way of protection, Josephine thought she looked every bit as confident as Commander Cullen in his full suit of armor. And though her dark hazel eyes squinted from the sting of sweat, her determined glare was reminiscent of the fearless Qunari warriors she'd read stories of in her youthful studies.

Against her better judgment, the diplomat pushed forward for a better view until she was standing beside the man behind the spectacle.

“Lady Ambassador,” Lord Chancer greeted her from where he stood, arduously flinging rose petals into the ring in front of him.

“Ser,” she answered him absentmindedly. Or at least she thought she had. So caught up with the sight before her, Josephine hadn’t so much as glanced in the flamboyant lord’s direction. One by one a seemingly endless line of opponents stepped forward - templar heavy infantry wielding shields, axes, mace, war hammers and great swords. And one by one they attacked.

Wielding a cleaver as though it were as light as a child’s toy, the Inquisitor drew a line in the sand, ground her heels into the dirt and prepared herself for each onslaught.

“Few get the privilege to watch the birth of a champion. A glorious sight, is it not?”

“It is…a lively one, to be certain,” Josephine answered diplomatically. Glorious was not the word she would she would use to describe the harrowing ordeal playing out before her. She flinched as Ser Blackwall was knocked to the ground with such force that his helm flew off his head and rolled across the yard.

“Standard procedure, my lady, do not be troubled,” Lord Chancer reassured a wide-eyed Josephine as the Inquisitor blocked and repelled every hack and slash that came her way. “When your mistress is finished she will be a champion in the bedroom as well the battlefield.”

Inhaling sharply, Josephine’s face darkened with embarrassment at the blatant insinuation. She was well aware that there were whispers of a romantic entanglement between her and the Inquisition's leader, but none had ever been so bold as to imply such a thing to her face.

“Goodness!”

Before she knew what was happening, she found herself shrinking beneath the intense gaze of the Inquisitor, her brows raised with…what was it, concern or merely confusion?  

Josephine had barely opened her mouth to reassure her when a stout figure charged across the practice arena to collide violently with his momentarily distracted opponent.

* * *

 

 _Umph_.

“Be careful!” Josephine chastised the Iron Bull as he unceremoniously dropped the Inquisitor onto her sofa. What the Qunari lacked in finesse he more than made up for in strength, as the warrior had been the one only capable of lifting, let alone carrying 260 pounds of dead weight on his broad shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Ambassador, Qunari are born with thick skulls,” he reassured her before he made his way out of the room.

“So I’ve gathered,” Madame Vivienne jibed, timely as ever as she ascended the stairs and bypassed Bull. “But let us not tempt fate---Oh, my! The poor darling.”

Josephine blanched at the Imperial Enchanter’s reaction to seeing the Inquisitor lying unconscious.

“Is there…nothing you can do?”

“Of course there is, my dear. We mages are capable of quite a bit more than being corrupted by demons, you know?”

Wasting little time, the enchanter placed a small phylactery into Josephine’s palm.

“Exactly twelve drops on the tongue and our burgeoning champion shall wake within the hour.”

Josephine eyed the glowing blue liquid skeptically as Madame de Fer took her leave. She had no reason to believe the mage’s intentions were dubious or that the potion wouldn’t work as claimed, but she was uneasy nonetheless. For the briefest of moments she considered asking the surgeon for help, but thought better of it when she surmised the woman’s help would involve sharp instruments and bloodletting. A slight chill ran up her spine at the thought.

Murmuring idle prayers to Andraste in her native tongue, she knelt by the Inquisitor’s side. Her left hand was steady as she readied the vial but her right trembled as she moved her fingers to touch the warrior’s full lips. They were far softer than she’d imagined.

 _Josephine_!

It was scary how much the voice in her head sounded like her mother. For a moment, Josephine could almost see House Montilyet’s matriarch, lips drawn tightly in disapproval, judging her all the way from the far reaches of her Antivan homeland. The mental image was more than enough for the diplomat to regain her focus, even if she now felt like a naughty teenager.

Tilting the vial, she let the surprisingly thick liquid fall in languid drops, counting them all the while. When finished, Josephine corked the concoction and waited for any sign of movement. But save for the deep rise and fall of her chest with each breath, the Inquisitor did not stir.

Her desperation growing with each passing minute, Josephine was on the verge of seeking the surgeon when suddenly her patient began to move.

“Inquisitor?”

Shaking her head as if the action might clear it of pain, the Inquisitor glanced around the room as though it were completely foreign.

“Where am I?”

“In your private quarters,” Josephine responded as calmly as she could muster through her burgeoning panic. “You were injured while training.”

Rising slowly to sit upright, the Inquisitor raked a hand through her neatly cornrowed hair before going stock-still. She stared at Josephine in abject confusion.

“I have horns?”

Grey eyes blinked in disbelief. Surely, she wasn't serious.

“You mean you don’t know?”

The Inquisitor stared at Josephine blankly, as if she couldn't even fathom what it was that she didn’t know.

“What exactly do you remember?”

The strong ridge of the Qunari’s brow knotted as she thought long and hard for an answer. 

“I remember fighting. There was a crowd all around…and I saw a woman, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen…”

The Inquisitor paused in retrospection while Josephine silently thanked the Maker that she was too wrapped up in her piecing her thoughts together to see the blush she’d unwittingly drawn to her cheeks. She wondered how could anyone’s words sound so sweet without even trying.

Her voice wavered when finally she found the courage to use it.

“What happened next?”

“I was charged by a bearded bronto.”

“A…bearded bronto?”

The Inquisitor nodded as though there was nothing out of the ordinary about what she’d just said. It was only upon seeing the mirth in her eyes that Josephine realized the truth. 

“Of all the---"

Without thinking, she plucked a pillow from the sofa and flung it at the Inquisitor, who dodged the fluffy projectile with ease. Dodging Josephine Montilyet's surprisingly fiery temper, however, was another matter entirely. Her words were interspersed with Antivan as her voice rose multiple octaves.

"Do you have any idea how worried I was for you? For the Inquisition? If you'd truly lost your memory, then...”

The Inquisitor’s amused expression fell away as Josephine trailed off emotionally.

“If it makes you feel any better, my head is throbbing and I can see two of you,” she admitted with a pout that made her look like a chastised pup. 

Suddenly Josephine couldn't remember a moment where she felt cross, contrite, and charmed all at the same time. So great was convergence of emotion, that she felt an overwhelming urge to distance herself from the very source of them. 

“I’ll fetch Madame Vivienne at once,” Josephine offered weakly, standing abruptly only to be stilled by a hand that was as large as it was gentle.

“No, wait! I mean, please, keep me company. Both of you.”

It was a blatant plea that even humor couldn't temper. And as such it proved impossible to resist.

“Well,” Josephine trailed off before reluctantly taking a seat on the sofa. “I suppose we could stay a while longer.”

It wasn’t that the Inquisitor lacked for charm or conversation. On the contrary, the she excelled in both arenas. In that way she’d been a rather pleasant surprise. The Qunari Josephine had met at court while in her native land had been hard, brooding types who spoke little of anything other than the merits of the Qun and the dangers Tal-Vashoth 'savages' posed to them all. 

But from the first moment the Vashoth warrior Adaar stood before her, Josephine believed almost instinctively that she was none of those things. She found her to be direct, yet well mannered; good humored and thoughtful in equal measure. In fact, the only commonality she seemed to share with the Qunari was her height.

She was, Josephine noted immediately, extremely tall.

* * *

 

“Honestly, Josie, you have the worst taste.”

Their first meeting concluded, Leliana had patiently waited until Commander Cullen and the so-called Herald of Andraste left the Inquisition’s newly minted war room to chastise her old friend, whose reaction to meeting the Qunari was almost comical in its inelegance.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Josephine denied adamantly. She knew, of course, exactly what her friend was talking about. 

“You’re…even taller than I’d heard,” Leliana mimicked good-naturedly in a surprisingly passable Antivan accent. “You forget how well I know you.”

Ever the diplomat, Josephine chose her next words carefully.

“She is…impressive,” she admitted finally, her tone nothing if not neutral. Certainly no one could take issue with her assessment of such an imposing figure.

Leliana smiled then, a smile she wore when she knew was right but wanted desperately to be wrong.

“She’s also a mercenary and a suspect in the murder of Divine Justinia," she reminded Josephine solemnly. "I only ask that you tread carefully.”

* * *

 

“You seem distant,” a low voice in the present remarked, softly coaxing Josephine from her reverie. “Does something trouble you?”

“Yes, actually,” she lied skillfully, desperate to hide the true subject of her musings. “I must apologize for my behavior earlier. I reacted poorly.”

“I’ve had far worse than pillows thrown at me, Lady Montilyet, I can assure you.”

“Still, it was…undignified.”

The Inquisitor tenderly took hold of Josephine’s hand and brought it up to touch her broad and heavily freckled nose. The diplomat frowned when she felt a slight knot where her bridge curved ever so slightly to the right, as if it physically pained her to feel the long healed injury.

“flying nug.”

“You were struck by a flying nug?”

“I was sitting in a tavern in Rivain when someone who apparently couldn't handle their mead got the bright idea that I’d come from Kont-aar to convert them to the Qun. I used my wit and feminine magnetism to reason with them, of course, and next thing I know there’s a wooden nug flying at my face.”

Good breeding and years of finishing school informed Lady Montilyet that the proper reaction upon hearing one's personal tale of misfortune was to lament. Yet she instead found herself giggling like a schoolgirl at the warrior's tale.

"I'm so sorry," she apologized through her sobering laughter, embarrassed by her lapse in etiquette. "That...must have been painful for you."

"Don't be," the Inquisitor reassured. "I only wish that all of my indignities could serve to make you laugh." 

There was that charm again, Josephine silently noted. She was growing so fond of it. Too fond, perhaps, but she was beyond caring at that moment. Overtaken by a sudden rush of boldness, she shifted her fingers to rest upon a small scar running vertically along the warrior’s temple.

“What about this?”

The Inquisitor indulged her curiosity without a moment’s hesitation.

“When I was a girl my father and I moved to a small village not far from Starkhaven. We were left alone, mostly, but a gang of older kids made it a point to provoke me whenever possible.”

“So you fought them?” Josephine asked, eliciting an amused laugh from the Inquisitor in the process.

“I was twelve years old, six feet tall and so skinny I could barely stand the weight of my horns.  One day one of the larger bullies grew bored of mere teasing and tripped me as I was carrying tinder back to our shack. This scar was the result. I ran home with my tail between my legs and begged my father to show me how to be a warrior like he’d once been.”

“And he did?”

“No,” the Inquisitor answered, smiling ruefully. “My father may have been Tal-Vashoth, but he was very much in agreement with the Qun when it came to certain ideas.”

“That women shouldn’t fight,” Josephine furthered, increasingly eager to hear more.

The Inquisitor nodded silently. It wasn’t quite the reaction the ambassador was hoping for.

She pressed on.

“Then how did you ever learn?”

“I’d just turned eighteen when I began to hear rumors of the Blight in the South. I decided then that it would be best if I learned to defend myself, if worst came to worst. And, as an added benefit, I could make good coin defending others as well. So I left my father’s home and sought out someone who would teach me.”

The Inquisitor’s expression grew pensive the more she spoke, and Josephine decided it best not to push for more details of her somewhat enigmatic past.

“I am…exceedingly grateful to whomever it was that did so,” she admitted, almost shyly.

Her face a perfect mixture of confusion and amusement, the Inquisitor revealed her own propensity toward obliviousness. She tilted her head in confusion.

“Because it led you here,” Josephine explained with a smile .

If she’d been expecting such a telling answer, the Inquisitor certainly didn’t show it. Instead she marveled openly at the woman before her, a living testament to her good fortune, the fortune she failed to recognize before that very moment. 

“So it did."

 

 


	2. Inspire

 

The hall that stood in disrepair only months before was now a splendor worthy of kings and queens. Gone was the scaffolding and debris, replaced by polished mosaics, stained glass and ornate statues. Though she once thought their presence perplexing, Josephine was beginning to take great comfort in the massive figures the Inquisitor chose for her throne room. But mostly she was simply grateful to be out of the crossfire surrounding the hall’s decoration.

Seeker Pentaghast had been vocally in favor of an Andrastian theme, a stark departure from the Iron Bull who, to the surprise of no one, demanded décor native to his Seheron homeland, ostensibly to honor the Qunari alliance with the Inquisition. Sera was also in favor of Qunari accents, if only to have Skyhold’s noble guests die from the shock of thinking they'd soon be forced to submit to the Qun.

Upon hearing this, Madame de Fer lobbied - surreptitiously, of course - for an Orlesian motif, while Lord Dorian merely wanted anything that wasn't “tacky”, and Master Solas simply disapproved of everything. Varric and Ser Blackwall largely stayed out of the fray, but Josephine was convinced it was only down to their confidence that the Inquisitor would pay homage to the birthplace all three of them shared.

But to the shock of nearly everyone involved, the Inquisitor took a bold step toward cementing her image as a champion of the faithful, outfitting the hall with Andrastian idols made to rigorous chantry specifications.

Had she not overheard the Inquisitor clumsily stumbling through the Chant of Light late at night in the garden below her room, Josephine would have chalked the decision up as a shrewd public relations move. As it stood, she could not be entirely certain why the Inquisitor seemed to be embracing the faith she’d expressly rejected time and time again.

“My lady?”

“Hmm?” Josephine asked distractedly before shifting her full attention from the throne room’s massive statues to her servant.

“You presence has been requested,” the soft-spoken Orlesian informed her, nodding discretely toward the closed entrance where two Inquisition soldiers were standing guard.

“Of course,” she replied, smiling slightly as she caught sight of the Inquisitor, who was in the midst of being adorned with a meticulously handcrafted crown of roses, one of many touches the Lord Chancer had insisted upon for the newly declared champion’s celebration. It was one of few indulgences Josephine allowed the trainer, whose idea of a soiree included wrestling, hunting, and various other physical displays of strength not suitable for polite company. Shuddering at the thought, the ambassador smoothed the outline of her dress and signaled to the guards to open the door.

“Finally! Lady shiny shirt will tell you lot what’s what.”

“You are not invited, Sera,” Josephine said emphatically without bothering to look up from the guest list on her clipboard. Her patience with the young prankster wore thinner with each passing day. Nevertheless, Sera pressed her luck.

“When you’re not invited to a party, you don’t show up. I get it. No harm, no foul. But the thing is, I showed up. I. Invited. Myself. Yeah? That makes me a guest.”

“No.”

“I even bought favors! See?”

Before she could gesture to the guards to shut the door, the diplomat found herself face-to-face with a platter of oddly shaped cookies.

“They spell Qun for the Inquisitor because she’s Qunari. Except, she’s not really Qunari innit? So I baked these T shaped cookies for her instead because I ran out dough and couldn’t make proper I shaped cookies. So…you gonna let me in or what?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Alright, it’s the Qun cookies, right? Look, they’re not really Qun cookies. They’re not gonna convert anyone or kill Dorian. At least--at least I don’t think they will…” Sera rambled before trailing off thoughtfully. “Hey, do you know if Dorian’s allergic to nuts? I mean, the other sort---”  

Completely exasperated at the maddeningly incomprehensible Elf, Josephine yielded.

“Just…go,” she said tiredly, waving her in to the hall with her clipboard in one hand as she snatched her cookie platter with the other. It was a decision she knew she would regret as soon Sera shouted behind her back.

“Oi, back off! I call dibs on that ham!"

_Andraste, take the reigns._

“Ambassador…”

Josephine sighed audibly, knowing the sight she was certain to face wasn't at all what she'd hoped for. She could feel the presence of the hulking Qunari bearing down upon her, almost reverberating with impatience.

“Iron Bull, I…don’t believe that qualifies as shirt,” she remarked, her head tilting as she attempted to make sense of the leather straps crisscrossing the warrior’s massive chest.

“My nips are covered. That’s the best I got.”

It occurred to Josephine then that she had been fighting a battle with the Qunari that could not be won. With great reluctance, she stepped aside to permit his entrance, but not before handing him Sera’s obscene platter of cookies.

“Anaan!”

Although she was far from well versed in Qunlat, the diplomat understood body language well enough to know that the Qunari was gloating as he strutted toward a red-headed servant girl.

“Is everything alright?”

Calm yet concerned, the Inquisitor’s low voice wrapped itself like a blanket about the diplomat’s frayed nerves and set her at ease for the first time that evening. She turned to meet the intensely probing gaze that made the warrior’s title seem fated.  

“Yes, Your Worship,” she answered, a genuine smile gracing her dark features. “I was just---”

“So this is how you’ve been keeping busy,” a raspy, yet feminine voice interjected from behind the Josephine's back.

“Shokrakar?”

Josephine recognized the name immediately. As the newly named ambassador to the Inquisition, she'd taken it upon herself to learn all there was to know about the mercenary who’d been tasked with closing the breach in the aftermath of the Conclave disaster.

What she had failed to gather from the reports, however, was that the leader of the Valo-Kas mercenary company was a woman. A striking woman whose long grey hair shone like the moon and stood in stark contrast to skin the color of the night sky. A striking and scantily clad woman, Josephine noted as a curious sense of dismay crept up her chest. Like Iron Bull and the Inquisitor, Shokrakar was well muscled and impossibly tall. Yet, unlike the Qunari and Vashoth warriors, her head bore no signs of horns.

She was, in short, a sight to behold.

“Has it been so long that you've forgotten your kith, Talvalo?”

The Inquisitor shook off the accusation with a short laugh, “Of course---”

But the warrior’s protest was cut short as Shokrakar stepped forward and kissed her with the sort of forceful passion Josephine had only ever read about in Varric’s more tawdry novels.

“Andraste’s wet knickers!”

Ever the rogue, Sera appeared out of thin air to stand beside the thoroughly embarrassed diplomat. “Proper good party this turned out to be,” she said through a mouth full of ham.  

It was, she was well aware, nothing if not improper for a hostess to leave an affair she'd arranged before her guests, but in that moment Josephine Montilyet was well past caring about the formalities. Blushing furiously, she excused herself and headed for the nearest exit.

‘ _See, my friends! It’s good to be Champion!_ ’

 


	3. Invite

So with Tresspasser coming out tomorrow, I wanted to wrap this story up. I've cross posted on FFnet so I may continue this series there, if the latest DLC is good or anyone's interested in reading more about these two nugheads. Lemme know. 

* * *

 

Invite

* * *

 

What had begun as a quiet affair, quickly dissolved into a riotous mix of debauchery and physical displays of one-upmanship. The predominantly Orlesian revelers took merry making to a level never before seen in Ferelden or, for that matter, the Free Marches.

"Well, shit," Varric remarked as two Orlesian nobles pawed at each other at the foot of the Inquisitor's dragon maw throne. "I gotta write this down."

A rose crown atop his head, Dorian watched the masked men appreciatively.

"Be sure to include an irresistible Tevinter mage when you do."

"Will do, Sparkler," Varric replied, flashing the grin of a natural born snake charmer. "How about you, Inquisitor, you want in on this?"

"No, thanks," came Adaar's distracted reply. She had no idea what the Dwarf was offering her, but she was at least sixty percent certain that she didn't want it. What she wanted, or rather who she wanted was nowhere to be found.

She hoped it was mere coincidence that Lady Montilyet's disappearance coincided with Shokrakar's sudden arrival. Yet, judging from the cold reception Leliana greeted her with when she inquired about her friend's whereabouts, it wasn't simply a matter of chance.

"You've changed," she whispered into Adaar's ear as she pressed against her back and slid an arm about her waist. She had changed, it was true. Fortunately for her, Shokrakar had bedded enough warriors to know that even the most obstinate among them would bend if she applied enough pressure. So she pressed harder. "Pining over a human when my head could easily be between your thighs."

Quickly and roughly extracting herself from Shokrakar's grasp, the Inquisitor turned on the mercenary and fixed her with a look that would have stayed lesser warriors. Shokrakar merely laughed soundlessly.

She was not a lesser warrior.

She was, in fact, the one who'd taken in the skinny young Vashoth when she cold barely fight off a cold, let alone successfully wield a great sword, and trained her in the art of combat.

"Don't," the Inquisitor warned in a tone far less diplomatic than she was becoming known for.

"Oh c'mon, there's no reason to be upset, unless…"

She trailed off, recognition halting her speech. Adaar avoided the look of disgust that was undoubtedly dawning on Shokrakar's wonderfully expressive face.

"Unless you don't simply want to bed her," she continued as though it were the most ridiculous notion she'd ever heard in all her years. To her dismay, the look on Adaar's face told her otherwise.

"Has that sorcery in your hand scrambled your brain?" Shokrakar scoffed, her feathery light voice climbing several more octaves. "What could you possibly have in common with a human, let alone some highborn brat? Even a human peasant would stand a better chance than you."

The Inquisitor stilled her disquiet as an Orlesian guest curtsied in greeting, remembering all the times Josephine warned her that it wouldn't do to conduct herself in a manner ill befitting someone of her ever increasing notoriety and stature. She bowed courteously at the woman in return and waited until she was out of hearing range before she turned to reprove her old friend.

"You don't know her."

"I know enough," Shokrakar dismissed her as if though were still little more than an ungainly adolescent. "I know she's trained you to bow and dance like some clever little pet to impress her ilk."

"I'll have you know, I'm a great dancer," Talvalo protested blithely. She couldn't deny that Josephine had taken an interest in refining her skills, but she wouldn't allow anyone to say that she had none.

"In battle, sure," Shokrakar amended. "In bed, most definitely. Outside of that, you've always had two left feet-Now, there's a thought, did she teach you personally or leave you to trample all over her poor servant girl?"

Adaar hesitated, thinking back upon the good natured ribbing and laughter that sounded throughout the tavern as Josephine took it upon herself to teach her the latest trends in Orlesian dance.

"What do you have against her?"

"Nothing," Shokrakar feigned innocence. "Only, if you've known one human, you've known them all. We're little more than animals to them, fit to fight and fuck for their jollies and nothing more. You're young, but you'll soon learn. Humans value little more than banality and acceptance. And you, my sweet girl, you will never be able to give a lady any of those things.

"I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but a party is generally considered a happy occasion," Adaar quipped with what little was left of her good humor.

Her weak attempt at a joke was still enough to bring a sympathetic smile to the mercenary's vitaar stained lips. She raised her hand, hands Adaar had always found remarkably gentle for someone so hardened and blunt.

"Don't be fooled by these petty trappings, by this…Inquisition," Shokrakar warned, her eyes skimming across the hall with the staid wariness of quarry in repose. "They follow you because they feel they've no other choice. They follow you because they fear their dreaded darkspawn more than they fear us. For the moment, that is. When the current danger becomes a distant memory, they'll remember who and what you are. But not to worry, you'll likely be dead by then."

As harsh as the words were, Adaar saw straight through them. They'd always been alike that way, sardonic beyond reason. It was as blatant a defense mechanism as the armor they wore. It was, they both understood, the main reason why their relationship had failed to develop into something more than sex and drunken fights.

"I have to say, your faith in me warms my heart."

It hadn't been long after meeting Shokrakar that Adaar learned the Tal-Vashoth was as fast at the mouth as she was with her sword, which was also why she immediately regretted her sarcastic remark.

Shokrakar saw the opening and seized upon it.

"I can warm your bed, if you prefer."

"Iron Bull," Adaar croaked, her throat suddenly dry. After months of going without, the offer was like a cool jug of water after a trek through the Hidden Oasis "What are you drinking?"

"Dragon piss."

"Hand it over."

"Sure thing, boss."

Without a moment's hesitation, the Iron Bull slid an enormous flagon along the table where he'd been hoarding a platter of nug skewers.

"Thanks, Bull," the Inquisitor muttered before downing the vile tasting liquid that quickly numbed her taste buds and set her insides on fire.

Everything that took place after that moment was little more than a blur. When she regained her wits, or at least most of them, the celebration was still in full swing. And, to her relief, no one seemed to notice the state she was in.

Well, no one except for Sera.

The ever-perceptive elf managed to make out with Shokrakar, down a platter of druffalo ribs, nearly cause an international incident, and take note as the Inquisitor moped about, pretending to listen to as Thedas's preeminent social climbers attempted to gain her favor.

"Alright, I can't watch this any longer," Sera groused through a mouth full of food. "You can close holes in the friggin' sky, blast demons back to the fade, you kill giant flying murdery monsters as a hobby, and yet you're afraid to chat up lady prissy pants?"

"Sera, I'm not chatting her up."

"That's bloody obvious," Sera jibed, all the while chuckling at the Inquisitor's cluelessness. "Find her and talk to her or I swear I'll spike the punch with dragon's drool or whatever you've been drinking."

"Alright, fine, I'm going."

* * *

The Inquisitor's earlier words were easier said than done. It wasn't until Adaar began walking on unsteady legs that she realized just how drunk she was. She managed to reach the stairs leading to Josephine's room without incident, but climbing them presented another challenge.

"Okay, Tal, you can do this," the Inquisitor reassured herself with a quiet pep talk. "One step, two step," she continued until she reached the curiously frigid landing where Madame de Fer had taken up residence.

"Vivienne," she greeted her in as sober a manner as she could muster in her drunken state.

"Inquisitor, my dear," Vivienne began, not bothering to look up from a large anthology on the potency of Rivaini roots in healing magic. "Do take care not to fall off the ramparts."

"Thank you, Vivienne, I will take that under consideration," the Inquisitor spoke in a deeply regal voice, hoping her authoritative tone would hide the fact that she hadn't heard a word the mage had just said.

* * *

 

The cool breeze that greeted Adaar upon stepping outside of the castle was nearly enough to sober her. Nearly. Stumbling about in the dark, she came to the troubling realization that she could no longer recall which door belonged to Josephine's room.

"Here goes nothing," she mumbled before knocking on the first door she came upon. "Josephine" she whispered harshly, listening closely for the sound of muffled talking and shuffling footsteps.

"Inquisitor," a distinctly accented voice sounded as the door opened.

"Mother Giselle!" Adaar breathed, a deep crimson blush threatening to overtake her rich tan complexion. "Good evening, I was just looking for Josephine's room-for, uh, diplomatic purposes, of course. My apologies."

Mother Giselle smiled knowingly, before pointing the Inquisitor in the right direction. "Lady Montilyet's room is over there."

The Inquisitor nodded gratefully.

"You have my thanks."

"I'm certain," Mother Giselle replied coyly, nodding in return as she slowly shut her door.

"Smooth, Inquisitor, smooth," Adaar mocked herself as she continued along the walkway. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her left hand to shine a brilliant green light on the thick wood separating her from the woman who'd captured her imagination like no one else she'd ever met.

"Inquisitor?"

The light instantly went dark as soon as Adaar heard the soft lilt she'd come to adore.

"Josephine," she called out, turning to see the Antivan standing alone in the shadowy Chantry garden below her. "What are you doing there?"

"I might ask the same of you," Josephine retorted smartly.

Adaar grinned in return, reminded once again how fortunate she was to have the quick witted diplomat as her ambassador. She would need to be just as nimble if she was to stand a chance with her. Placing one hand on the cool stone of the castle walls, she launched her imposing frame over the edge to land in the garden below with the sprightliness of a Fennec.

"Goodness!" Josephine exclaimed, clearly not used to the sight of a giant horned woman leaping from great heights. "You could have broken something."

"Oh, I already have," Adaar smirked. "My right leg, my collarbone, my left arm…As a child, I climbed trees that would have made Iron Bull seem tiny in comparison. Of course, that means I fell out of my fair share as well."

"So you've always been reckless," Josephine remarked, disapproval evident in her tone.

"I can be cautious as well," Adaar defended herself, looking thoroughly admonished. "To a fault, in fact."

Josephine's mouth fell ajar slightly, as though she were about to speak, but she held her tongue. The Inquisitor took the awkward silence as a sign to continue.

"Josephine, I have something on my-"

"Horns," Josephine interrupted her, stepping closer.

"My what?" the Adaar asked, both confused and flustered by the Lady's sudden nearness and the smell of her perfume

"You have flowers on your horns," Josephine repeated, pointing out the flowers that had been impaled on the Inquisitor's horns. "Bend," she ordered her, sounding more impatient than she'd likely intended.

Adaar simply obeyed, completely unaware of the inextricable pleasure her ambassador was taking at the swiftness with which she followed her command.

Still, even at her reduced height, Josephine found herself struggling on her tiptoes to pluck off the skewered rose petals. Seeing this, Adaar took the initiative to sit down on the bench before her.

"Where is your crown?" Josephine asked of the adornment Lord Chancer had placed upon his newest Champion to celebrate her glory.

"Dorian took it," Adaar muttered petulantly, avoiding Josephine's eyes as if to hide her shame at the fact.

"And you let him?" Josephine asked, looking doubtful that anyone could take anything from the seven-foot-tall warrior that she wasn't willing to give.

"He's very charming when he needs to be."

"Then you have something in common," Josephine laughed softly.

Adaar didn't dare look up, but her pale hazel eyes glimmered with hope.

"You think I'm charming," She declared quietly as if awestruck by a new revelation.

"I...I think you're a great many things," Josephine admitted, her fingers lingering on the smooth plated Aurum curves of Adaar's horns .

"Mostly good things, I hope."

The words were spoken barely above a whisper, as Adaar was afraid anything louder might break the delicate spell that seemed to surround them.

"You have no idea," Josephine admitted wistfully, taking in the Inquisitor's endearing yet stalwart features. "Forgive me," she stammered, quickly backing away as her grey eyes widened with - what was it - mortification?

"For what?" the Inquisitor asked, rising to her full height in an attempt to halt Josephine's retreat. With every step Adaar took toward her, Josephine took another step back. Perhaps, she considered, Shokrakar was right. "Have I made you uncomfortable?"

"No," Josephine breathed. "You're perfect-I mean, the perfect leader…for the Inquisition. It would be ill mannered of me to keep you from your own soiree."

"Right," Adaar half-heartedly agreed, looking more confused than convinced. "Let's speak later."

"Of course, Your Worship," Josephine said dutifully before turning to walk back to the castle. "Another time."

* * *

 

 


End file.
